


When Plan C Fails...

by Signe (oxoniensis)



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Apocalypse, Crossover, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-04
Updated: 2011-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-14 09:56:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/148032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oxoniensis/pseuds/Signe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"We've started the Apocalypsssse," Crowley finishes, losing control of his esses. And sighs. "Again."</p>
            </blockquote>





	When Plan C Fails...

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to luzdeestrellas for the beta, and snarkaddict for looking it over and reassuring me that it was funny. Originally posted November 2010, [here](http://oxoniensis.livejournal.com/459226.html).

_The first Monday in July, a pleasant sunny day, with a low arthritis index and a moderate UV index. Not that our first two protagonists are likely to be troubled by either arthritis (despite their age) or sunburn (despite their pallor)._

Aziraphale had plans for today, and he can't help but feel a trifle irked that his plans have been spectacularly upset.1 In fact, everything seems to be contrary today: his comfy sofa has suddenly developed an annoying dip that won't go away, his tomato plants have developed a blight, and his custard creams have gone soggy. You can't dunk soggy custard creams, they're an insult to the grand human tradition of biscuits.

Having a cranky demon sitting in Aziraphale's armchair, which is now the only comfortable seat in the room, is not helping.

The table between them has a teapot (china, with a charming design of pink and cream roses), two cups and saucers (that match the teapot), a plate of biscuits (not the soggy custard creams), and a book. To all outward appearances, all should be well.

"Can't we just get rid of it?" Crowley looks as though he wants to blast the book into oblivion. Aziraphale's seen things after Crowley's had that look — they weren't pretty. Only the other day Crowley gave a Robin Reliant that look because it offended his sense of what was right and proper for a car. All three of its tyres had gone flat immediately, the paintwork bubbled, and the aerial flopped over like overcooked spaghetti.

"It will still have existed," Aziraphale points out. He smoothes a slight wrinkle in the soft calfskin cover. It's beautifully bound, with the smallest, neatest stitches and gold leaf lettering in English Round Hand script. He really couldn't have been expected to resist acquiring it. Or reading it.

"But it won't exist any more," Crowley says, sharp and eager. Aziraphale _thinks_ it's only in his imagination that he sees the book trembling slightly.

"We'll know about it though," Aziraphale says regretfully. It's a shame that such a beautiful book, such a unique piece of work, should turn out to be the catalyst for the end of the world.

"You mean—?"

"Yes."

"Because you read it—"

"Yes."

"And told me about it—"

"Yes."

"We've started the Apocalypsssse," Crowley finishes, losing control of his esses. And sighs. "Again."

Aziraphale thinks it's exceptionally good of Crowley to share the blame, not that he'd insult him by saying anything.2

"Technically it's 'an' Apocalypse, not 'the' Apocalypse, as it's not the first one—" Aziraphale tails off as Crowley glares at him. "Yes."

"Bugger."

"Yes," says Aziraphale mildly. "Bugger."

 

*

 _A Wednesday in July, also pleasantly sunny, though with a bank of cumuli nimbus clouds on the horizon that would look a trifle ominous to a trained eye, although that's not of any great concern because there is currently only one set of trained eyes in a situation to observe them, and he's asleep. Or appears asleep, which is a different matter altogether._

"Doctor?" Donna prods him gently with her elbow to start with, then, when that's singularly ineffective, pokes her fingers in his side and shouts at him. " _Doctor_!"

He stirs, opening his eyes blearily. "Keep your eyes on the road," he says, which Donna thinks is totally uncalled for, considering that she barely clipped the verge. And that was more the fault of the pink limousine (and really, limousines are tacky enough already without painting them pink) going in the other direction. It took up more than half the road, and there was a bikini-clad blonde waving a bottle of wine from the sunroof. Mum would have had a field day with that one.

She huffs. "Are you complaining about my driving?"

"Well, it is a bit—What's the right word?"

"Better than yours, that's the right word. Words. Phrase. Whatever."

"My driving's brilliant, I'll have you know," the Doctor counters. "Karl Benz taught me himself."

"Yeah, well, you were probably safe enough when you had a man walking in front of you with a red flag."

"Well, actually—" he says, and he's got that sheepish tone he gets when he's admitting something he doesn't want to admit.

"You didn't!"

"He was fine afterwards, made a perfect recovery. A few days in hospital and he was right as rain."

Donna shakes her head, more in a sort of vain wish that it weren't true than actual disbelief. Then she remembers the reason she woke the Doctor up in the first place.

"Check the rear view mirror," she says.

The Doctor immediately turns around in his seat and stares obviously at the road behind them.

"I said check the mirror, you great pillock. You know, be subtle about it. You can do subtle, right?" she adds, suddenly dubious. It isn't as though she's ever actually _seen_ him be subtle.

"Oh," the Doctor says. "Ah well, never mind. What am I supposed to be looking at anyway? Unless you were belatedly pointing out that rather attractive patch of meadowsweet we've just passed."

Donna looks at him. "Yes, of course I would wake you up to see a patch of blooming weeds! Or, you know, maybe I thought the flying car that's been following us since we got off the motorway might be considered, I dunno, a little bit unusual."

"Flying cars really took off after fission reaction became cheap and safe. Late twenty-first century. Totally commonplace by the early twenty-second century."

Donna interrupts him before he starts on a history (future history? — she's not really sure what to call it — there's probably a word for it in the future) lesson. "We're not in the late twenty-first century. It's 2008 and the car is an old Bentley, and I'm pretty sure Bentley Motors didn't make flying models."

"Hmmm, that _is_ interesting. And actually worth being woken up for."

"Should I try to shake it?" Donna asks hopefully.

"You're already going—whoa, way over the speed limit — slow down a bit. I don't think you're going to get away from it in this."

"Told you we shouldn't have hired a Skoda, but oh no, you liked the colour."

"It's yellow. You can't go wrong with a yellow car. Bananas are yellow. And custard. Delicious stuff, custard."

"It's a diesel, with about as much oomph as a motorised wheelbarrow, and we're being chased by a flying Bentley. If we'd rented the MG—" Donna's always wanted to drive a sports car. Or even just something sporty. And now would have been a really good time.

"Are you sure it's chasing us?" the Doctor asks. "It might just be using the same road, off for an afternoon spin in the countryside, waiting to get past us."

Donna looks at him, the stare that she knows can quell just about any man who's being particularly stupid. It doesn't work on the Doctor, though. Secretly, it's one of the things she likes about him. In practice, however, she just glares even harder before making her point. "It crossed three lanes of traffic to follow us off the motorway, and whenever I pick up speed and try to get away from it, it takes a shortcut across a field, _in the air_ , and it's back on my rear bumper again. I've been driving practically in circles for the last ten minutes, and it's still following us."

The Doctor hems and haws and finally nods. "You make a convincing argument for it following us. Pull over then."

"What?" Donna shrieks, quite justifiably. "We're being followed by heaven knows what in a flying car, and you just want me to pull over?"

"Might as well find out what the driver wants, and we're not going to do that while we're driving around in circles."

"I am _not_ pulling over, not until we get to a police station, or a, I don't know, somewhere safer than the middle of nowhere." Donna isn't shouting. She's just raising her voice enough to make certain the Doctor can hear her properly. Because sometimes he seems to suffer from selective deafness. Not the first man she's met with that complaint.

ACTUALLY, PULLING OVER WOULD BE A REALLY GOOD IDEA. AZIRAPHALE IS BEGINNING TO FEEL CAR SICK.

"Doctor, did the radio just turn itself on? And speak to us?" This just isn't on. They're not meant to be on an adventure right now. They're having a day off, doing things the normal human way, driving to Poole where they're going to take the ferry across to the beach and Donna's going to get a sunburnt nose because she always does, and they're going to walk past the nudist section and pretend they're not looking, and later they're going to eat fish and greasy chips with extra vinegar, and maybe get stuck in traffic on the way back. A normal, ordinary day on Earth.

I TURNED IT ON. AND YES, I'M SPEAKING TO YOU. BORROWED THIS LITTLE TRICK FROM A—

There's a rather long pause, and Donna imagines she can hear a mind churning over what term to use.

A COLLEAGUE, the voice continues eventually, tone a little uncertain on the last word. It's the sort of voice that doesn't sound as if it's ever uncertain. It's a very strong voice. It makes her shiver more than a little.

"Come on, Donna, just pull to the side. You know you're curious now," the Doctor says, and she can see he's fidgeting in his seat like he can't wait for the car to stop so he can go and find out what's happening. The worst thing about it is that Donna's got the same itch in her feet too. She's a little bit scared, but she's a whole lot more curious.

She pulls the little Skoda into a gateway, and the Bentley crashes to a halt in front of her, the hedge appearing to move out of its way at the last minute.

"Hmm, interesting," the Doctor says, and gets out of the car.

Two men are getting out of the Bentley. One, a very dapper man of indeterminate age, is startlingly dressed in a frock coat, top hat and tartan waistcoat. Somehow, he manages to make it appear perfectly suitable attire for an afternoon out in the country. The driver has slick dark hair and snakeskin shoes and looks vaguely like a hangover from the 1960s.

"Ah, yes, a perfect choice. I always like to have a view when I stop for a picnic," the first man says.

Donna blinks, lost for words, and must somehow have lost a few minutes because the next thing she knows the Doctor is ushering her through the gateway into a field where there's a blanket spread out, and a basket set to one side.

"A picnic?" she manages eventually. "You've been chasing us and scaring me half to death, all to invite us to a picnic? Who the hell are you two anyway?"

*

Somehow, she never does get an answer. She learns that the dapper man is Aziraphale and the slick one Crowley, but she's not sure if they're first names, or if she should put Mr. in front of them. And she doesn't find out exactly who (or _what_ , she's pretty sure _what_ is more the question) they are.

The Doctor seems to know, chatting away with them like they're old friends. He's congratulating them on something — sounds like Adam and the antichrist, but the chicken is so good Donna gets distracted — and they're congratulating him back. Like a regular, mutual fan club meeting, although it's all terribly polite. Clearly nothing is going to get answered if she leaves it to them.

"So, are you going to tell us why you've been following us?" Donna asks, stomping right in.

Aziraphale coughs. "We need some help."

Donna rolls her eyes. It's always the way. "What sort of help exactly?" Donna asks, seeing as Aziraphale doesn't seem too inclined to elaborate.

"The Apocalypse is upon us," Crowley says, and Aziraphale looks reproachfully at him. Donna thinks he was going to work his way up to the answer more subtly, but to the point works for her.

"The Apocalypse, huh," she says. "Okay." She briefly wonders whether that's better or worse than the Dalek's attempting to take over the universe.

"So, what exactly makes you believe the Apocalypse is upon us?" the Doctor asks, as though it's a perfectly normal sort of question to be asking over a glass of perfectly chilled white wine (and just how it's so perfectly chilled when there's no wine cooler in sight, Donna decides not to ask).

"The horsemen are riding," Crowley says. And then qualifies it. "Some of them."

"The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse?" Donna snorts. She has trouble keeping a straight face.

"The Three Horsemen of the Apocalypse Redux," Aziraphale says, as though it pains him to say it. Donna can understand — it does sound a bit ridiculous.

"Three Horsemen? Is this an apocalypse on a budget then?" She doesn't manage to keep her face straight this time.

Crowley looks at her, and even though he's still got those dark glasses on, she gets the feeling it's not the wisest thing to poke fun at him. "It was prophesied," he says.

"Details, all those little details, that's what we need. When you say some of them are riding, what exactly do you mean? Always handy to know what sort of time frame we're working in," the Doctor interrupts cheerfully, as though he's asking how long before dinner's ready, and whether they're having Brussels sprouts or cauliflower.

Crowley and Aziraphale look at each other. Donna can't read their expression for sure, but it appears to be embarrassed. Crowley clears his throat and then answers. "I believe you saw one earlier. In a pink limousine."

"Ah, yes, we did indeed. Cute little bikini," the Doctor says. Apparently he wasn't so bleary eyed at the time that he hadn't noticed that.

"That was Glenda, otherwise known as Global Warming (and if you don't cut back on fossil emissions you're all going to kill yourself anyway). And Dubya's been around for eight years now."

"You mean—?" Donna asks, boggling.

"Yes, he's one of the Horsemen."

"Wow."

"And the one who isn't riding?"

"Obesity. He's been bedridden for two years, ever since he hit 500 pounds. Too much fast food. Even horsemen aren't immune to temptation."

"Wow." Donna seems to be saying that a lot today, but being with the Doctor has left her rather short of appropriate words at times. She thinks they've all begun to digress rather, though. "What's the Apocalypse got to do with us. I mean, I know the Doctor's clever, but why do you think he can do anything about it." She stops to think for a minute. "I'm assuming you're trying to stop it?"

"Definitely, my dear. An apocalypse is always a bad thing."

"We started it," Crowley says.

"That was a little foolish, don't you think?" the Doctor says reproachfully, and surprisingly Crowley and Aziraphale just nod their heads.

"The thing is, everyone had forgotten about it. Even Himself. There's a lot to remember when you run a universe. So if we'd just left well alone..."

"What exactly did you do?"

"We read the prophecy."

"And now we can't unremember it."

"Okay," Donna says. "Let me get this straight. You're saying that you started an apocalypse just by reading a prophecy about it?"

"Yes. We were hoping to find someone who could go back and prevent us from reading it—"

"No, no, no," says the Doctor. "You must know I can't do that. Quite impossible."

"But, you are a Time Lord, are you not? We can't be mistaken, surely."

"A Time Lord, yes, but even we can't manipulate events we're a part of. I can't undo what you've done. I'm sorry," he says.

"Can't you just, I don't know, make an exception?" Donna asks. It wouldn't be the first time he's broken the rules, after all. She can be quite persuasive when she puts her mind to it.

"Oh, Donna, Donna," he says, and he's more amused than exasperated, she thinks. "It really doesn't work that way."

"Ssssso you are sssssssssaying that you cannot help," Crowley says. Donna shivers. There's just something about him that makes chills run down her spine. Literally.

"Sorry. Wish I could, but you know what it's like, the universes have a few constant rules, can't go breaking those now."

Donna shivers again, and this time it's because the temperature has just dropped and the sky's gone dark. She grabs hold of the Doctor's arm. "I think we'd better be getting out of here," she tells him. "Nice meeting you and all, and thanks for the picnic, but we'll be off now."

It's raining by the time they get back to the car, and the wheels churn noisily in the suddenly muddy gateway, but Donna gets the car moving eventually. She doesn't check the mirror, not for miles. When she does, it's a quick look, just a glance. There are no cars behind them, least of all a Bentley, and Donna slumps down in the seat, suddenly realising how tense she was.

"You knew them?" she asks the Doctor.

"I wouldn't say 'knew them' exactly. More of a case of we met in passing during the last Apocalypse."

Donna boggles. "They started that one too? What is it with them, some sort of hobby? 'Hey, what shall we do today?' 'I don't know, I'm a bit bored.' 'Fancy starting an apocalypse?' 'Don't mind if we do, old chap.'"

"No, that one they actually thwarted. Good work, really. Quite impressive," the Doctor muses. He's looking at the map upside down — it's a good thing Donna can navigate without him.

Donna's not sure if she should ask the next question, but then that's never stopped her before. "Who exactly were they? How did you meet?"

The Doctor doesn't answer straight away. He keeps staring at the map.

"You've got it upside down," Donna points out eventually.

"Ah, so I have. Although there's a point to be argued that it's not so much a case of the map being upside down, as—"

"Doctor, I've known enough men in my life to know when the subject's being changed." She takes her eyes off the road for a moment to give him a pointed look.

The Doctor grins. "Crowley sent me a message on psychic paper during the last Apocalypse. These demons, they do like to keep up with the latest technology."

"Demons! They were demons?" The car swerves, and the nervous nellie in the Fiesta in the other lane honks her horn. Donna ignores the Fiesta driver but gets back into the right lane.

"Only one of them," the Doctor says, as though that makes it alright. He's clutching his seatbelt apprehensively — serves him right if he doesn't like her driving — he's just made her have a picnic with a demon.

"Then what the hell was the other one?" Donna asks.

"More like, what in heaven was the other one," the Doctor answers, and Donna splutters.

"You mean, you don't surely mean. You can't be saying. No. No way. _Really_?"

The Doctor nods.

"Wow." Life might be short with the Doctor around, but it's never boring. An angel and a demon. That tops everything so far. Though the impending Apocalypse does put a damper on it.

"We really can't do anything about this one?" Donna asks, though she's not entirely sure she wants to hear the answer.

"Never say never, Donna," the Doctor says, tapping a tune out on the dashboard. "We're not giving up this easily."

"But I thought you said—"

"I said I couldn't interfere by going back in time. I didn't say I couldn't do anything."

"So why are we driving away from them?"

"We can halt an apocalypse anywhere. So we might as well do it somewhere fun."

"We're not going to Blackpool," Donna says firmly. She has memories. Childhood holidays. She hates Blackpool. And she's already spent an hour this morning arguing with the Doctor against holidaying in Blackpool — she's not going to let him sneakily get his way just because there's a bit of a crisis.

"I was thinking we'd carry on to Bournemouth, actually. Close by, nice enough beach, good fish and chips. We can have our bit of a holiday after all."

"You're barmy, you are," Donna says affectionately. "You're the only person who'd think stopping an apocalypse was a holiday."

*

Aziraphale has doctored the tea. Well, no, that's not entirely true. Originally, he doctored the tea. Then he gave up on the tea and now the pot is neat gin. It doesn't really go with custard creams, but that's not the point. The point is, this is a neat gin situation, and he really had hoped he wouldn't have another of those. And so soon, too.

It doesn't help at all that it's his fault. Guilt is a decidedly annoying sensation that makes everything feel uncomfortable.

Crowley glaring at him from the other armchair doesn't help either. Crowley's glare, even through his sunglasses, is withering, and while it doesn't have any actual physical effect on Aziraphale, it's still doesn't make for a relaxing sort of atmosphere. Also, there's a vaguely burnt smell coming from behind him: some poor inanimate object clearly got hit by the full force of the glare while Aziraphale was in the kitchen and didn't survive the experience. Aziraphale hopes it wasn't the mother-in-law's tongue — he's grown fond of that. It reminds him of Crowley.

"I wonder what it will be like," Aziraphale muses. He doesn't really want to ponder the state of the earth after the Apocalypse, but it's hard to think of anything else. There's always been speculation — quietly, behind His back — about what would actually be left after the Apocalypse.

"Have you had any communication? With, you know—" Crowley waves his hand vaguely upwards.

Aziraphale shakes his head. "Nothing. You?"

Crowley shakes his head too. "Not even a memo."

"What do you think that means?"

"It'sss possssible they haven't realisssed."

"That the Apocalypse is about to happen?"

"You know what they're like up there. And they're worssse below. So far behind the times."

It's more than possible. Last time Aziraphale was in heaven he lost three years, just like that. A chorus of harps and angelic voices is frightfully soothing, and nobody likes to talk while they're playing — it would be impolite — so conversations up there start one day, get interrupted, and somehow end up never being finished.

"I wonder if it will make any difference to the Apocalypse." Aziraphale isn't certain if it's one of those things that will carry on regardless, or if it needs some celestial nudging to take place properly. It could well be that they're heading for a bodged Apocalypse. That would be terribly embarrassing for all concerned.

*

 _The same Wednesday in July, no longer sunny. In fact the clouds are those miserable, low ones that no one ever remembers the name of but knows that they mean it's going to start drizzling as soon as you're as far as possible from shelter. Most people think it's just the weather being perverse. Most people are wrong._

The Doctor has spent all afternoon running along the water's edge, darting away each time a wave gets a little too close, every now and then shouting out things like: "Of course! No, dammit!" and "Yes, we could—no." and "Aha, what if we—but then we'd—and—no." Every single exclamation has ended in _no_.

It's late afternoon now, and he hasn't had any eureka moments in over an hour. He's a little hunched over, maybe against the wind, maybe just because he's coming to realise that he can't do anything after all. Donna's been resigned to that for a while. She's not used to just giving up, but it's best to be realistic.

And right now, the reality is that she's about as depressed as she could possibly be.

"This is all your fault," Donna says, gaze focussed firmly on the sea. "Let's have a nice walk on the beach he says. It'll take your mind off things he says. Be a nice little holiday he says. Why do I ever listen to you?"

"Because you just can't help it," the Doctor answers, even though it was one of those questions that wasn't meant to be answered. He's right, of course. Bloody annoying it is.

The sand's cold — she had to take her shoes off because her heels kept sinking in — and there's a nasty damp breeze coming in off the sea. It's grey and bleak and it's her bloody earth and she loves it and she doesn't want it to come to an end. Having the Doctor walking at her side, quietly now — no running and bouncing and jabbering insanely and coming up with crazy ideas that shouldn't work but somehow always do in the end — just makes it worse.

The Apocalypse is coming, and it's coming so quietly that hardly anyone even realises it's on its way. There's an angel, a demon, a Time Lord and a secretary from Chiswick in the know, and there's no funny punch line to end the story.

She might as well go home. See Granddad. Her mum too.

Except.

What if.

Maybe.

"But surely it _can't_ happen," she says. She skirts a patch of slimy looking brown seaweed. There's a dead jellyfish caught up in it, a large and silvery-white blob. It smells fishy and slightly off. "It can't, because you've lived through the future. You know the future. You've bloody well taken me to the future, so how can that have happened — how can that happen — you know what I mean." Tenses are hard when you're discussing the future with someone who's been there, done that.

"Ah, time," the Doctor says. He dashes up the beach, picks something up off the tide line, and runs back to Donna. It's just a stick in his hand. He draws a straight line on the sand. "That's not time at all, nothing like it," he says, pointing to the line. Then he starts drawing again: it looks like a spiral at first, but it loops and coils back in on itself, lines almost touching but not quite, the spiral getting bigger and bigger as he runs around, jumping over the lines as he goes. "That's a Beribulean curve," he says. "Not that Beribule has been born yet, of course," he says with a wink and a smirk. "He's still not got it quite right, but that's the closest thing I've ever seen to the way time really looks."

He's looking at the lines in the sand like they're beautiful. It's all just a mess to Donna, though she does get one thing from it. "It just keeps going, doesn't it? Your lines, they don't end anywhere. The curve just gets longer and longer."

"Ah, that's the mad, crazy, wonderful thing about this. It all depends."

"On—?" Donna prompts.

"On which way we're travelling. Are we travelling in or out? That's the question."

"Are you saying you don't know?"

"All the great minds have assumed we're travelling out. That time began but has no ending. But what if time had no beginning, but has an end?" He actually sounds excited. There are times Donna almost forgets he's not human. But right now, he's more alien to her than the Racnoss or the Vespiform.

Donna's getting a headache. She rummages around in her bag and pops two ibuprofen into her hand. She swallows them dry.

She really, really hopes they're travelling out.

*

"So, are you back for good this time, then, or what? Because if you are, you're going to have to get a job. Can't have you in the house all day. It's bad enough having your grandfather underfoot all day — I can't be coping with the two of you."

Donna shrugs. "I don't know, Mum." It's not like she can tell her the end of the world's coming any day, and not even the Doctor can stop it. That heavenly forces can't stop it, because there's an angel who was asking them — her and the Doctor — for help. And that now the Doctor's looking at it like it's an intellectual exercise to see which way they're moving along a bloody curve. She takes a deep breath and tries to look like everything's normal. There's no point in panic before the event.

"I'm glad to see you, girlie," Gramps says. "No matter why you're home."

Smart cookie, her granddad.

"Probably won't be around for long," Donna says, which is as close as she can get to the truth.

"So that skinny Doctor's coming back and going to whisk you away heaven knows where again. That's it, isn't it?"

Donna shakes her head. She doesn't know if she'll see him again. Probably not — he's sure to have plenty of other things to do before the universe ends, far more important than visiting her.

She takes a deep breath. She is not going to be maudlin. She is most certainly not going to waste the last few days of her life moping around. "How about a night out?" she suggests. "Somewhere nice. Wherever you want."

"You come into some money?"

"I've got some savings. Be a shame if I can't spend them on my mum."

"Well, I have always wanted to go to the Ritz for afternoon tea."

"Afternoon tea at the Ritz it is. You're coming too, Gramps."

"I won't have to wear a suit, will I?"

"Of course you will."

*

They order tea and cakes. Everything is very dainty — the china cups look silly in Granddad's hands — and the cakes aren't any nicer than she could get in Asda for a fraction of the price, but her mother is sitting there looking as regal as the Queen, little finger pointing out and all. She's in her element. Donna wants to tell her she loves her, but then her mum will think Donna's dying and once she gets an idea like that in her head there'll be no changing her mind. So she settles for ordering more tea once they've finished the first pot.

At least fancy tea tastes better than PG Tips.

"So, why don't you get yourself down to the Job Centre tomorrow. There's plenty of temping jobs you could pick up to tide you over. Get you used to nine to five again."

The tea doesn't taste so good after all. "Yes, Mum, I'll do that," Donna lies.

"Give her a bit of space, hey, love," Granddad says. "I'm sure Donna's been busy. She could probably do with a bit of a break."

She squeezes his hand under the table and mouths _thank you_. He winks back at her. She thinks she'd better tell him what's going on. Maybe tonight, when Mum's watching Emmerdale.

"Fancy meeting you here." Donna looks up in surprise as the Doctor grabs a chair from the next table — don't mind me, he says — and squeezes in between her and Granddad. "Hello, Wilfred, wonderful to see you again." He pumps Granddad's hand, then turns to mum. "And Mrs Noble. Nice tea here, isn't it. The cakes are overrated, but the tea is exceptionally good."

"Doctor," Donna says, because she thought he was off somewhere else, some other place or time or dimension or whatever.

"Donna," he says, and beams at them all.

"You never told me your friend was joining us, Donna," her mum says, as though Donna's been keeping secrets from her. Which, well, she has of course. Just not this one.

"Ah, not Donna's fault. I'm the bad penny who always turns up unannounced."

"That I can believe," her mum says tartly, but she raises her arm and calls a waiter over anyway.

They order yet another pot of tea and another plate of cakes. Donna has two more cakes because there's no point watching her weight now, Granddad ums and ahs and then relents to a glare from Mum and just finishes his cup of tea, and the Doctor eats all the rest. They talk about astronomy (Gramps is excited that NASA have found water on Mars) and astrology (her Mum wants to know what star sign the Doctor is and isn't too impressed when he names one she's never heard of), move on to the mayoral election (because Mum secretly fancies Boris Johnson) and end up at Wimbledon.

"Those Williams sisters ought to be made to wear longer skirts. Indecent, that's what it is."

"Probably a bit chilly on a breezy day, but girls will be girls," Gramps says.

Her mum huffs. "You were always too easy-going."

Gramps shrugs. "You turned out well, my dear," he says, and Mum can't really say anything to that.

"I'll just pop to the ladies room," she says, changing the subject. "Donna, do you need to powder your nose?"

Donna resists the temptation to roll her eyes. "No thanks, Mum, I'm fine."

"If you're sure, then," her mum says, and heads towards the loos.

"Does—" the Doctor says once Mum is out of hearing range, and motions towards Granddad. Donna shakes her head quickly.

"Do I know there's something going on?" Gramps says. "Of course I do. I might be old, but I'm not stupid. Do I know exactly what it is? No, but by the way Donna's been moping around, it's serious and the two of you've not managed to do anything about it."

"You're a smart guy, Wilf. I'd never think otherwise."

"So, are you going to tell me what it is?" Granddad looks expectantly between the two of them. It feels surreal, talking about the end of the world in the middle of all this old-fashioned elegance.

Donna leans in towards him and keeps her voice low. She knows her voice tends to carry, especially when she's upset, so she takes a deep breath to make sure she doesn't accidentally tell the entire room that the Apocalypse is nigh.

"There's this old prophecy, you see. And these two chaps. And, well—" She really doesn't want to say the words _Apocalypse_ or _end of the world_ , but keeping her mouth shut never stopped anything from being true. "It's the end of the world, Gramps."

Granddad sits and takes it in for a moment. "Any idea when it'll be?" he asks, his voice only a little bit unsteady. Donna's proud of him. Comes from good stock, she does.

"Saturday, 4pm," the Doctor says. "At least I think so — I always get confused by Greenwich Mean Time and British Summer Time, and add an hour when I should take one away. Silly thing, really. But Saturday afternoon, anyway."

"This Saturday?" Donna asks, her throat suddenly dry despite four cups of tea, because really she'd thought they'd have more time than that.

"Last Saturday."

Now Donna's confused. "Last Saturday? This isn't some weird time travel stuff again is it, because that really does my head in, and I'm all out of ibuprofen, and paracetamol never does a thing for me."

"It is the 10th today, right?"

"Yeah. Do you actually know what year it is?"

"Of course I do. When have I ever not known what year it was?"

Donna opens her mouth. The Doctor interrupts. "No, forget that, don't answer it. But the Apocalypse was definitely last Saturday."

"He isss quite correct."

Donna blinks. She is quite certain there was only herself, Gramps and the Doctor at the table a moment ago. Now the dapper angel with the funny name and the demon are sitting at it. And, oddly, it doesn't seem any more crowded than it did with four sitting at the table, as though it has somehow expanded to fit them.

The angel leans towards her. "We were initially under the impression that the prophecy used the Gregorian calendar. A foolish mistake, I admit, but then prophecies are rarely entirely straightforward. Using the Julian calendar, it's quite clear that it was last Saturday.3 It appears that we were a little late contacting you."

Donna decides to ignore the miraculously expanding table. It's impossible, but so are a lot of other things she's seen. "But everywhere looks the same," she says. "The earth's still here. Everyone's still here."

"Yesss."

"We rather thought it'd be different from this too," the angel says. "Bit of an anticlimax. I wouldn't have stocked up on digestives if I'd known. On the other hand, you can never really have too many chocolate digestive biscuits in the house."

The end of the world's been and gone, and there's an angel sitting at her table talking about biscuits. Donna starts to laugh.

"Hey, love, who are they?" Gramps whispers.

"Friends of the Doctor's," Donna whispers back, because really, there's not a chance she could explain these two before her mum gets back from the loo.

"I don't suppose you stocked up on jammy dodgers too, did you, old chap?" the Doctor asks.

The angel with the funny name shakes his head. "Hissss name is Aziraphale," the demon — Crowley — says in her ear. Donna winces. She hopes it was a lucky guess — she'd rather not be having tea with a mind-reading demon, thank you very much.

"Ah, well," the Doctor sighs. "Haven't had a real jammy dodger in—well, technically five weeks, but with the roundabout time-route to get here, more like three and a half years. That's an awful lot of days, you know. Over a thousand. And not a single jammy dodger. Perfect food for the end of the world. Even if it all fell a bit flat."

Donna feels she ought to try to make conversation. She's not entirely comfortable chatting with a demon, but then she's faced down giant wasps and half spider monsters, so she imagines a demon can't be much worse. Especially one who's so pally with an angel.

"So, what's hell like?" she asks, because she's never been shy of starting a conversation just because the topic might be a bit touchy.

Crowley tilts his head to one side. "Have you ever driven the M25 at rush hour?"

Donna has. Five hours to get past two junctions. It was hell. Oh. "Really?"

Crowley nods.

There's a sharp tap tap tap of heels and Mum is back at the table. She stands behind her chair, arms folded, and scowls. "What's this? More friends of your Doctor wanting to scrounge a cup of tea. This isn't the charity table, you know."

"Mrs Noble, it's a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance," Aziraphale says, standing up and pulling out her chair.

"We have heard ssso much about you," Crowley lies, and his smile is as subtle as a python's hug, but just like that her mother is charmed.

"Why haven't I met your friends before," she demands.

Some things, not even the end of the world can change.

The End  
(But only of this particular story, not the earth or the universe or any of the other universes. Everything else is carrying on quite nicely, business as usual.)

 

1 Admittedly, his plan for today was the same as his plan for the entire week, which was a nice, long snooze. It had been a while since Aziraphale had enjoyed a good snooze (averting the last Apocalypse had thrown his schedule quite into disarray), and he felt it was about time.

2 The last time Aziraphale accidentally thanked Crowley for being a good sort, Crowley refused to speak to him for a decade, during which he went to great lengths to prove that he was most emphatically not a good sort. It was all a bit unpleasant — particularly for the inhabitants of Atlantis — and Aziraphale is quite certain Crowley didn't even enjoy himself that much.

3 It's a little known fact that all Apocalyptic prophecies predict the end of the world will occur on a Saturday at tea-time. Aziraphale secretly thinks it's the fault of television programmers: Saturday evening entertainment is so truly awful that it's really not that unreasonable to do anything to avoid it.


End file.
